


Shoot 'Em; Politely.

by ConniptionCrazy



Series: Bold Damn Heroes [1]
Category: Firefly, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Battle of Serenity, Gen, Hope everyone likes it, M/M, So this is a thing I did, and there's fluff, it's got everything but sex and even that's probably coming eventually, look there's violence, some man tears, that one au nobody asked for and hopefully everybody wants as much as I do, trust me counter: 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConniptionCrazy/pseuds/ConniptionCrazy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody dies today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shoot 'Em; Politely.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I get for watching too much space things. I can't say I'm entirely satisfied, but hey. I dig it. Hope y'all do to. Without further ado...

“They say they fought in the battle of Serenity.” A hushed voice at a dark table in a dim corner.

 

“All of them?” Asks an astonished companion.

 

“No, no, just the Captain, his right hand man, and the doctor.”

 

Jim grins across the bar at Leonard before jerking his head. Spock stands immediately, gracefully, drink untouched. Jim stands after him, dusting himself off and straightening his coat. Leonard knocks back the rest of his beverage of choice, saluting the bartender with his glass as he pushes away from the bar and comes to stand at Jim’s other side, clearing his throat.

 

“We waitin’ for somethin’?” Leonard asks, fixing Spock and Jim with a raised eyebrow.

 

Jim snorts and shakes his head, stuffing a hand in his pocket and leading the way out of the bar. No sooner are they outside than Jim opens his mouth.

 

“They were talkin’ about us, Bones.” He drawls. “‘Bout when we got together.”

 

Leonard laughs, covering his mouth with his wrist as he looks skeptically at his Captain.

 

“You mean that time you were stupid and crazy and Spock and I saved your life? Oh wait-”

 

“Oh wait-” Jim echos, and they finish in tandem.

 

“That’s all the time.”

 

Leonard smirks as Jim scowls goodnaturedly and Spock says nothing, his dark eyes turned to the clouds above.

 

-=-

 

It’s a slaughter, that’s what this is. Jesus Christ- Everywhere Leonard looks, dead men and women who were fighting for something they really believed in. Men and women who were gunned down like fish in a barrel and left to bleed out into the already stained earth. There are still explosions, still shouts, but farther off now. The systematic hunting down of any survivors.

 

There’s a sudden movement on a nearby ridge. Leonard ducks behind a rock on reflex and looks around.

 

It’s a man, standing and looking out over the battlefield. He’s tall, and rail-thin, with straight black hair that was probably a bowl cut but was now disheveled and dirty. The man’s dark eyes are cold and analytical. In his hands, he holds a big gun. There’s a gash on the man’s forehead, the blood dripping down his cheek and crusting at his temple and jaw both. He wears tan pants, high brown boots, a red vest, a dark blue scarf-

 

And a brown coat.

 

Fear makes Leonard hold his breath. This guy has killed people- McCoy knows the look. And he doesn’t seem adverse to doing it again if Leonard surprises him. So he swallows and watches.

 

The man, seeing no one, evidently, doesn’t relax exactly. But he lets his guard down a hair. When he moves, he moves like a cat, fluid and graceful and alert, fullstopping when he pauses. The man kneels, laying the gun to the side, and starts rifling through the pockets and belongings of dead men and women.

 

As he gets closer, Leonard can see that he’s not just stuffing ammunition in his pockets. He’s collecting medical supplies, too. Bandages, mostly, if they’re clean. Majority of them aren’t.

 

Leonard doesn’t know what makes him step out from his hiding place, med bag clutched to his side.

 

The man is _fast_. He spins around, gun already in hand (when did that happen?) and pointed right at Leonard. They say nothing. Leonard watches as the man takes him in- obviously a field doctor, with his pristine white uniform, and obviously not a friendly one.

 

“You in need of a doctor?” Is what Leonard says when he unsticks his throat.

 

There’s a long pause. Leonard can hardly hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears, pulse pounding in his chest.

 

Finally, the man lowers his gun and gestures with a jerk of the head for Leonard to follow as he begins to walk away. Which is confusing, because wasn’t he looking to fix himself? Leonard follows anyway, swallowing hard, leaving the explosions and unfurling chaos behind him.

 

The man never looks back to make sure Leonard is following. The pace he sets is hard- he knows this ground, picks his steps without thinking or faltering. Leonard almost slips and falls at least four times, and stumbles a dozen more.

 

Finally, when it seems like they’re never going to stop, they do. Right next to a crashed, derelict shuttle. Supply shuttle, Leonard recognizes- there’s maybe one gun on the damn thing. And judging from its charred exterior, it’s done all the blowing up it’s going to do. Safe, for now. and impossible to tell which side it belongs to. At this point, Leonard thinks, it doesn’t really matter.

 

The man stops by what serves as an entrance- the shuttle is upside down- and Leonard hesitates but goes in first. Already being kinda dark outside, he doesn’t have to wait long for his eyes to adjust to this extra darkness.

 

There’s another man in the shuttle, slumped on the floor, one leg out at an odd angle. His head was nodded to his chest, one hand on the floor and the other on a gun laying across his lap when Leonard came in, but now he jerks to full awareness, pointing his gun at the intruder.

 

Leonard scowls. He’s here to _help_ , dammit.

 

“Captain.” The first man says, pushing by Leonard to kneel by the injured man’s side. His voice is unexpectedly smooth, for somebody experiencing what some imagine when the word “Armageddon” is mentioned.

 

“Jim.” The first man says again.

 

Jim drops the gun, going limp once more.

 

“Who’s he?” Jim grunts, gesturing at Leonard with the gun weakly.

 

“A doctor, Captain. He’s here to help you.” The first man says, ushering Leonard over with a gesture.

 

Leonard pushes down any trepidation he might have and sets to work, kneeling and opening his medkit.

 

“Don’t you work for the other guys?” Jim slurs, trying to lever himself up without success.

 

“I’m a doctor. I work for the injured.” Leonard grunts.

 

“Spock first.” Jim insists, weakly pushing Leonard’s hands away.

 

“What?” Leonard barks, looking to the man who guided him here. Must be Spock. “He’s nowhere near as serious as you, kid.” And God, but Jim is a kid. They both are. Leonard tries not to be sick.

 

His words do not calm Jim. If anything, they anger him.

 

“ _No_.” He growls, pushing at Leonard again, more firmly. “Doc, that man is my conscience. Eyes, ears, right hand. You take care of him first, so’s I can stand next ta him while he’s breathin’, instead’a when he’s suckin’ dirt.” Jim is so vehement and ferocious that Leonard looks to Spock.

 

… Who doesn’t seem at all surprised, actually.

 

“Captain, whether he treats me or not, I will live. You, however, might not.” That shuts Jim up.

 

“Besides,” Leonard adds, muttering as he gets to work. “You’re gonna need somethin’ solid to stand on in the first place. Like your _bones_.” He emphasizes by setting Jim’s broken shin with a grunt.

 

Jim jolts, mouth open to scream, but Spock gets there first, slapping a hand over Jim’s mouth and allowing Jim to scrabble for purchase on his person. Jim finds it on Spock’s thigh and forearm and holds on _tight_ while Leonard works.

 

Jim’s got a lot wrong with him. Besides the broken leg, he’s got a gunshot in the thigh of the same leg, and another shot through his opposite upper arm. There are gashes and scrapes all over, and old scars are revealed the more Leonard looks. Nevermind that Jim’s having an allergic reaction to something and has a fever to boot. Leonard fixes him up as best he can before giving him something for the pain that should also help the fever. It’s going to be touch-and-go; Jim seems to be a magnet for injury.

 

By this point, Jim’s gone limp, one hand loosely holding onto one of Spock’s, head back against the wall of the shuttle. Jim rolls his head to see Leonard more clearly, a dopey grin on his face.

 

“We’ll have you wearin’ a brown coat yet, doc.” He says, and passes out.

 

“I think I already am.” Leonard mutters, looking down at his now extremely dirty uniform. He's not sure if he's speaking literally or figuratively anymore.

 

That night is rough. Jim’s dead to the world. Leonard tries to stay awake, or tries to sleep, he’s not really sure- each option works equally well. Which is to say, not at all. He rests fitfully. And every time he looks over, Spock hasn’t moved, sitting Indian style with one hand on his gun and the other resting on his knee, back ramrod straight, eyes flicking between Jim, Leonard, and the entrance to the shuttle. Nothing has calmed down out there, at all.

 

Leonard thinks he might have introduced himself at some point, but he’d need more sleep to really remember. If he did, Spock doesn’t acknowledge him.

 

By morning, the dust has settled temporarily. There are no sounds. Leonard gets up to leave only to find his way blocked by Spock.

 

“What the-” Leonard’s face hardens. “Outta my way.” He growls.

 

“My apologies, Doctor, but I cannot let you leave.” Spock says, hands folded calmly behind his back at a parade rest.

 

“Why the hell not?!” Leonard demands, hands curling into fists at his sides. He might have helped them, but that was last night, and now he wants to go home.

 

“Sorry, Bones. You go out there, we all die.” Jim speaks up, groggy but lucid.

 

“What? But it’s- nobody’s out there!” Leonard protests. “And the name’s Leonard, McCoy.”

 

“C’mere. Look.” Jim grunts and shifts to the side, gesturing to the crushed window that’s been serving as his backrest. The opening is small, about half a foot up and barely bigger than that in width, the metal all crumpled and warped.

 

Leonard hesitates just long enough to let them know he doesn’t like this before getting on his hands and knees and looking through the opening. At first, he doesn’t see anything. And then a glint of metal in motion. He jolts back just in time to not get shot through the head.

 

“We’re surrounded?!” He demands.

 

“Indeed.” Spock hums.

 

“Only reason we haven’t been blown up yet is probably because of you. Just how good a doctor are you?” Jim asks, eyebrows furrowed.

 

“The best.” Leonard says flatly.

 

Jim takes a moment to absorb that information.

 

“Mister Spock?”

 

“Yes, Captain?”

 

“Gun.”

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

-=-

 

They spend four days, fighting towards the explosions, instead of away. It confuses McCoy, but he’s not about to question the two scary men with big guns who happen to be helping him not die. Jim can barely walk, but they make it somehow to the medships flying browncoat colors by the time the ceasefire is enacted.

 

When Jim and Spock load up and the door starts closing, Leonard hears Jim holler from his stretcher, feverish and delirious with pain once again.

 

“ _Wait!_ Wait. Need my Bones.”

 

When Spock leans out of the door, bandage around his forehead, eyebrow cocked expectantly, Leonard gets his first lesson in ‘what Jim wants, he gets.’

 

-=-

 

They go through several more battles. Leonard goes with but hangs back, treating whoever comes his way. It doesn’t matter how many times Jim and Spock come limping off the battlefield, stony faced and still battle-ready, it doesn't matter how long and hard they fight, how much blood and sweat they pour into their cause. Anyone can see they're losing.

 

These were good people. Good people fighting for a good cause, and Leonard was coming to see how empty and greed-riddled the Alliance was. The longer he stayed, the more endeared he became to Jim and Spock. Just as well- he didn’t have anywhere else to call home. Nothing better to fight for.

 

He once saw them, side by side in bed, levered up on their elbows so they could face each other. Those hands were clasped. Jim’s other hand was on the back of Spock’s neck, fingers brushing the baby hairs there. Spock’s free hand was lightly resting on the bandages wrapped around Jim’s ribs. Their foreheads were pressed together. Spock was impassive, as always, but Jim’s brow was furrowed, eyes shut tightly as tears rolled down his cheeks.

 

Losing, and well aware.

 

-=-

 

They make it back to the _Enterprise_ , Jim and Leonard laughing and a little buzzed. Spock stops them, and they sober up fast. They can hear talking.

 

-=-

 

Sulu and Chekov look nervously between one another. The locals not takin’ kindly to them was something to be prepared for, but not expected. And now there were guns in their faces and people with twitchy fingers on the other ends of those guns.

 

“ _Well._ ” A familiar voice calls out. Honestly, Chekov could have cried in relief.

 

Jim stands on the ridge with his gun pointed at the locals, dusty white pants, loose yellow shirt, brown boots, brown coat. His blue eyes are sharp. Spock, to his right, most definitely has his frowning eyebrows on. Dressed like Jim but with a dark blue shirt; he holds two pistols and looks damn frightening. Bones, on the left, matches Spock in dress like they got up and planned it, and there’s a toothpick hanging from his lips and a shotgun in his hands. The wind tousels their clothes and hair, but their aims don’t waiver.

 

“‘Pears we got here just in time!” Jim says, smirking. “What’s that make us?” He asks, aside.

 

“Big damn heroes, sir.” Spock deadpans.

 

“Ain’t we just.” Bones drawls, spitting out his toothpick.

 

Nobody dies today.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah. There's more to come.


End file.
